


In the Sun

by Velvetoscar



Series: Core 'ngrato [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: I don't think it's angsty?, at all?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:14:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velvetoscar/pseuds/Velvetoscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After watching his two best friends fall stupidly back in love, Zayn sort of wants to be stupid again, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This is poorly written, I'm sorry!!! I didn't even have anyone look it over--I'm on my floor wearing not-pants and just tapped it out while watching This Is Us.... 
> 
> Basically, I'm sorry if this is god awful. Ziall just deserves their happy ending, too. :) 
> 
> "In the Sun" by Coldplay ft. Michael Stipe is the song for this. Completely. Give a listen! <3

_Don’t ever let yourself regret :)_

Zayn stares down at the offensively yellow note stuck to the countless pages scattered loosely together inside of his sketchbook, shaking his head just barely and biting the inside of his cheek as a cold flush briefly washes over him.

Harry. Leaving encouraging post-its.

Which is fine, yeah, and probably actually quite sweet. And the little bugger’s been right chipper ever since he got back with Louis—smiles in unnervingly large amounts and basically glows like a goddamn fairy. Or a sprite—do sprites glow? Zayn’s always liked sprites more. They seem more mischievous and ‘in the know’ and are vastly underrated.

Zayn’s always like underrated things.

With a sudden, all-encompassing urge for a cigarette or ten, he snaps the cover of his sketchbook shut and stands up from the shitty wooden bench outside his shitty lecture hall. It’s sort of alright out—sunny and cloudy with speckles of rain showers. There’s a breeze, as well. It smells like moist earth and dirty water and it’s goddamn refreshing, is what it is. His clothes feel heavy today—too dark and too thick on his bruised skin—and the moisture in the air makes him feel lighter somehow. It probably should be the other way ‘round—the precipitation soaking into his clothes and weighing him down, but…

But nah.

It feel refreshing. Fuck what it ‘should’ be.

So Zayn just walks to his lecture hall, ignoring the ‘should’s and feeling the moisture and pretending that he isn’t being weighed down at all—even if Harry’s words clunk a little a too heavily in the soles of his boots, even if the note makes the burden in his hands seem almost impossible to carry.

*

“Did you find anything in your sketchbook today?” Harry asks with slow blinks and long eyelashes and wide, smooth lips the very fucking second Zayn bumbles through the door to the flat.

Zayn’s begun staying here again. He really hates his rooms. They’re small and they smell so strongly of ‘synthetic’ that he gets a headache within two minutes of being in there. And he hates living in such close proximity to a bunch of annoying fucking kids. So fucking annoying, with their shit music and smuggled liquor (that tastes shit) and their laughter which only serves to curl his skin. He might hate people a bit.

So after Harry and Louis’ honeymoon (that’s what it was, basically—that’s even what Harry “jokingly” refers to it as and Louis snorts his laughter about it, amused) they invited him back to crash there whenever. Which is brilliant, really.

He still gives them their space, though. Being newlyweds and all that—and he says this with complete irony, mind you. Heh. But he does sort of love them and he does sort of care about them working through their shit, supporting their ‘dates’ they’ve begun going on or whatever, so he tries to give them their space and it’s cool. They’ve got a good arrangement, a good understanding of each other, and Zayn’s pretty fucking thankful for them and their open arms whenever he does show up sporadically, usually with a scowl, usually with too much weight in his boots.

Louis’ not always here, though. He goes back home, goes to that school in their town and works at some…place. Zayn’s not really sure, he doesn’t listen all that well anymore. It involves kids, though, and Louis’ always showing Harry pictures of them on his phone. They coo together like two mother hens and giggle and fuss and it’s sort of nauseating but sort of endearing; that is, up until they start naming their future children. In which case Zayn just plucks his pack of cigarettes up off the counter and “goes for a walk”. AKA, sits on the steps of the building outside while pouring smoke like a sad fuckin’ chimney, watching passerby and hating most of them.

One could say that Zayn’s in a dark place.

So it’s totally founded when he shoots his eyebrows up at Harry, unimpressed, as he dumps his sketchbook on the kitchen counter and heaves off his shoes.

“Real cute, Harry,” he admonishes, scratching his beard. It’s been so itchy lately but he doesn’t really have the fucks to do anything about it. “Thanks.”

Harry’s face falls instantly.

“I’m trying to help, Zayn,” he says, and if kittens had fuckin’ voices, they would have Harry Styles’ fuckin’ voice. Poor kid is just young and sweet and totally innocent in some regards, innit?

It twitches Zayn’s lips as he walks to the couch, sits heavily upon it and hears the squeak of it. He looks out the window, sees a bunch of rooftops and smog. And the plant that Louis and Harry bought their first month back together. It’s a “Promise Plant” as Harry likes to call it, and it needs to be watered. Its leaves are browning, a bit crunchy on the edges. Zayn suspects they’re too busy fucking and making actual promises to remember to take care of it.

“You’re not happy,” Harry continues empathetically, still sounding forlorn and small and fluffy. Mewling. Is that what kittens do? “I just… I remember how it was. Before.” He’s walking over to Zayn now, the heels of his boots clicking on their scuffed floorboards. Zayn secretly thinks Harry’s shoes are hideous. “And we were both so miserable and all we had was each other. And now Louis’ back and…”

Zayn locks his jaw, the taste of iron filling his mouth. There’s no blood though, so he has no clue as to what’s caused it. His body tenses, just clenches infinitesimally, anticipating the words Harry might say.

Don’t say his name. Don’t bring him up.

“I’m just replenished me with hope,” Harry says earnestly, gesticulating the words with large, clumpy hands. He’s got a silver ring on his right middle finger. Zayn’s pretty sure that’s a Promise Ring from Louis. So many promises.

“Your plant’s dying,” he grunts, lying his arms on the back of the couch, spread either side of him. Kicks his feet up on the table.

Harry’s eyes snap to the plant—and there’s a flitter of anxiety there, Zayn spots it—before they settle back on him with a glare.

“Don’t try to change the subject, Zayn,” he says smoothly, but he immediately moves from his spot, retreats for their kitchenette.

Zayn sniffs, feels in his pockets for a pack—there’s one but it’s only got one cigarette. He figures he should probably savour it for another moment, a more deserving moment.

He suddenly hears the cabinet open and then he hears the faucet, the rushing cool water filling a cup. No surprise there. He tries not to smirk or chuckle, tries even harder when he sees Harry swiftly walk back into the room and deposits the contents of the cup into the plant.

“There, there,” he says quietly, comfortingly, petting the dry leaves.

Zayn can’t resist rolling his eyes, though. He might smirk a bit, too.

Harry straightens, assembles the fond out of his eyes and looks back to Zayn, serious. “Anyways,” he says, setting down the cup, and takes a seat on their coffee table, directly across from Zayn, knocking his feet to the ground.

Zayn doesn’t break eye contact, just stares.

Harry’s hands are tucked between his thighs, eyes bright and watchful, his hair curling in every direction beneath his large, brimmed hat. Zayn secretly thinks that’s hideous, too. But it’s so _Harry_ that he sort of admires it and offers forth a half-arsed smile at the thought.

“I think you should try to contact Niall.”

And whoosh! The half-arsed smile is gone, the lights are gone.

Zayn’s body clenches again, harsh this time, and averts his eyes immediately, heart beginning to jiggle. His limbs feel twitchy. Like they want to jump off of his body or disjoint. He wants that cigarette now.

“Listen, you owe it to yourself. And to him,” Harry continues, patient and slow. “It’ll help, alright? Just staying like you are, right now, isn’t going to help. Trust me. I know, yeah?”

And yeah. Harry does know. And yeah. Zayn trusts him. But he doesn’t say anything, just bounces his leg and looks at the other side of the room, blood still coursing too much.

Niall. Fuck, man. Shit. Niall.

 _Niall_. Blonde hair that’s almost black at the roots, tousled about and soft to the touch. Peach skin, speckled with freckles and birthmarks and patches of stubble. Cheeks that flushed so red, so splotchy, so delicately fiery. Blue eyes—no, cornflower eyes. Zayn has the perfect tube of paint that matches them. Cornflower Blue. It’s the paint he uses the least, afraid to use too much. He doesn’t want it to run empty. He wants the cornflower blue eyes to sit in the bottom of his bag forever because he’s a selfish coward and he can never truly let go of beautiful things.

Then again. Perrie was beautiful. And he let her go.

….But she wasn’t beautiful like Niall.

At Zayn’s extended silence, Harry looks a bit worried, but more sympathetic.

“I never thought I would ever have Louis again,” he continues quietly, eyes pinched and serious and intent on Zayn, and his voice… There’s just something in his voice that stirs the insides of Zayn, and it makes him look up at him, meet his eye and listen. Harry has a way about him; Zayn listens. “I never thought it would be the same. But, like…. Zayn.” He says his name seriously, earnestly. Zayn fights to remain eye contact, to not look away and distract himself with the brittle leaves of the Promise Plant. “It’s better than before. It’s even better. And we’ve grown. And we just talked, you know? That’s what changed everything. We communicated and we talked and I discovered things I never knew and he discovered things he never knew and it just… Everything suddenly made sense. We made sense again. And it’s better now. You know?”

How nice.

Zayn looks away, feels a terrifying flush of temptation.

It does makes sense, though. Zayn doesn’t want it to make sense. He doesn’t deserve Niall. He’s terrified of Niall.

He’s just about to say so, to let the words slip from his lips while the flat is still and quiet and uncreaking, while Harry is still perched in front of him, all hopeful and earnest with toes pointed together—

But then the door bursts open behind them.

“Honey, I’m home!” a slight, electric voice announces, charging the air, and Zayn starts, hands falling from the back of the couch, eyes unglazing. Harry’s face immediately bursts into happy, smiling light, his eyes hooked over Zayn’s head and positively twinkling; it’s unreal, inspiring, the way they actually twinkle like a children’s book or cartoon. It stays with you. Zayn loves painting it, loves trying to capture it with oil and dye. He loves painting Harry’s eyes, especially when they look at Louis.

What can he say? It’s inspiring.

“Louis!” Harry all but squeals, popping up off the table like he were spring-loaded, and he’s gone now, Zayn notes with a begrudging smirk and flash of fondness. Whenever Louis arrives for a visit, Harry is positively _gone_ from the rest of the world for that first day. He’s so clingy.

Zayn really wishes he wasn’t so endeared by the ridiculousness of it all.

“You’re early!” Harry continues, nearly hopping the couch to reach him.

Zayn feels his own smile form as he turns to greet Louis—he really quite likes him. A lot, even. He figures they’d probably be good mates, best mates maybe, even if he wasn’t obligated to like him due to being Harry’s other half. Sometimes he suspects that he and Louis get along even better than he and Harry. Yeah, he quite loves Louis.

“Mate,” he greets, catching Louis’ eye as it peeks out from Harry’s massive shoulder and hat and bursts of curls—he’s all but buried in the other boy, laughing brightly and clutching at him with slender, tan hands that clench in the fabric of Harry’s t-shirt. His thumb presses in, almost possessively, and Zayn observes it all, wonders how it would look in different colours. What Louis and Harry would look like if they were nothing but colour, no shape or reason. Probably a lot of crimson reds and jade greens and gold. Probably hints of azure and warm hazelnuts…

Zayn’s been meaning to paint them. Something abstract because Louis and Harry can’t be defined and are more than shapes. Can’t be confined in lines.

“Bro!” Louis laughs to Zayn as Harry continues to swallow up his body and Louis clutches. They smile at each other as Harry basically purrs, curling up small in Louis’ embrace. He loves to be protected, Harry does. Loves his Louis. “Alright?”

“Piss poor, but I’m alright,” Zayn smirks, still sitting.

Eventually Harry releases Louis—but keeps his unblinking, besotted eyes on him, following closely at his side as he clutches one of Louis’ hands in both of his (honestly)—and Louis makes his way over, offers his freeze hand to bump fists with Zayn.

Zayn feels himself smile wider as he meets Island Blue eyes that sometimes glow Mystic Blue in the light. “Didn’t know you were coming,” he says.

“Yeah. Only for the weekend, but still.” Louis smiles at Harry, pulls him closer to his side. Harry flutters. Human form of a butterfly, with long, graceful wings reaching towards the ceiling. “Had to check up on my boy, didn’t I?”

A short, dry chuckle escapes Zayn as he settles back into the couch, averts his eyes as the lovebirds meet for a chaste kiss. “Your boy’s been a nuisance,” he grumbles, looking back at the plant. “He keeps leaving me stupid notes and he’s killing your plant.”

“Oi!” Louis squawks upon seeing the browning, curled leaves. Harry’s face falls before sending a flash of a glare Zayn’s way. “Harry! You don’t like the Promise Plant?? You want to kill our first shared responsibility??”

“What? No! I—“

“That was a test, Harry. And you failed it.” But Louis’ got light in his eyes and Zayn’s mind is now wandering back to the cigarette in his pocket.

“No, Lou! I love it, of course I love it. But, see, I’ve just been trying to take care of the flat and I’ve been working more—“

And suddenly Zayn hears a smiling “shhh” as he lifts himself from the couch, stealing away silently. He glances over and Louis’ looking as enamoured as ever, finger pressed against Harry’s lips to silence him.

“I’m only joking, Curls,” he says gently, and Harry pools beneath the words, blinks dazedly. “I don’t care about the plant. We can feed it to the birds, for all I care.”

“You can’t feed plants to birds, I don’t think.”

“You definitely can’t,” Zayn adds, stuffing his feet in his boots.

“No one asked you, Malik,” Louis counters, but sends a wink his way before his gaze settles back onto Harry, his hand reaching up to comb through his hair. Something Harry loves, Zayn knows. He really is a kitten. “Now. What shall we do today, lovely boy? Have you written anything new?”

“Yeah,” Harry says shyly.

Zayn smiles into his chest as he picks up his sketchbook, shakes his head a bit. They’re so clingy. It’s so stupid.

“Can I read, then? Or, rather, would you like to read to me? In bed though, please. With no trousers. And cake, if you have it.”

“Why would I have cake? That’s not good for you, Lou.”

“It’s not _not_ good for you.”

“Well. Yeah, actually. It’s not good for you.”

“This doesn’t sound like you reading to me.”

The last thing Zayn hears before he shuts the door quietly behind him is Louis squawking in surprise and he can only imagine what that means. They’re so stupid.

His smile lingers as he descends the stares, wonders what it would be like to be stupid again.

*

 _‘Maybe ur right’_ he texts later, to Harry.

He’s sat in his lecture, staring blankly at a slideshow of pointillism and it means nothing to him right. Just a bunch of dots, innit?

He’s been bouncing his leg nervously, accidentally ramming it into the desk a few times too many. It’ll probably bruise but he’s not too fussed about it. He’s got other shit on his mind. Heavy shit. Cornflower blue eyes and a trail of fuck ups. That kind of shit.

It’s the kind of shit that bogs him down every day. It’s exhausting, that, it really is. Which is why he texted Harry and why he’s currently feeling like his intestines have frozen, encasing in ice and crystal. Because he’s actually thinking it, isn’t he. He’s actually thinking about…reaching out, or whatever. To Niall.

He shifts uneasily at the name, heart jolting just a bit.

Jesus. If he’s this weak… Just how the fuck is he going to manage patching things up?

His phone buzzes, Harry’s chipper words flashing across his black screen.

 _‘That’s the spirit_ J _’_ it says and Zayn’s already rolling his eyes and suppressing a chortle. He never chortled before Harry. Well. That’s not true. He chortled with Niall. But properly. Guffawed, some might say. Maybe he should’ve studied literature after all. _‘We’ll talk tonight!’_

He locks his phone, feeling a spike in blood pressure. Then it buzzes again.

 _‘I’m really happy for you Z._ J _This will be good for you_ J _’_

Harry really uses too many emojis. Ever since he got back with Lover Boy, he’s been like a great big emoji himself. The one with the heart eyes. Zayn hates emojis. And part of him wants to begrudge Harry that, wants to feel embittered about his newfound, vomit-inducing joy and ‘sunshine and rainbows’ attitude, but…

But then he looks at Harry and Louis and he couldn’t ever be bitter about that.

If anything… He wants that. He wants that back. And maybe…

Maybe he can get it back.

*

“What if you just showed up on his doorstep?” Harry suggests later as they sit in the evening gloom of the flat, Louis’ legs strewn over his lap. They’re on the couch, Zayn’s perched on the windowsill. The shitty wood’s hard on his arse but it works out for the best—his cigarettes (he bought a pack after lecture) can billow their smoke out the window and the breeze settles him a bit. He likes a breeze, a good breeze.

Besides. He wouldn’t want to rip the lovebirds apart. Perish the thought.

He hides his smile behind another drag of the cigarette and shrugs. “Probably wouldn’t work out that well,” he mumbles, lips tingling as he exhales. He loves the way smoke makes his lips feel.

“I dunno, mate. Worked for me,” Louis comments lazily, half-arsedly flicking through his phone. He’s buried inside one of Harry’s grey jumpers, the hood pulled up and practically swallowing his face. He’s half awake, eyes nearly drifting shut in the glow of his iPhone. He flicks them up to Harry’s face now, a fond smile forming. “Though, I suggest warning him first, Malik. It doesn’t go over so well when you don’t warn them.”

Zayn half-smiles, takes another drag and feels another draft of cold as Harry protests.

“Hey,” he basically pouts (kitten) and his eyebrows pinch together, full on. He looks over at Louis, plops both his hands on his feet. Just for the touch, Zayn supposes. “It worked out. We’re here, aren’t we?”

Louis levels him with a stare, hood slipping a bit further over his head, casting shadows across his Island Blues. “You cried a _lot_ , Harry.”

And Harry smacks him and Louis cackles and Zayn looks away, out the window, taking another drag as they tussle behind him.

Just show up, eh?

Zayn could never do it. He keeps smoking, squints against the burn.

“Give him a ring, yeah?” Louis suggests, finally freeing himself from Harry’s hands, who looks charmingly smitten and docile as he reassembles himself. “You don’t have to make a big thing of it—just try to talk to him. It’s the least you can do. After shitting everything up—oi!” He winces, Harry’s hand hitting his arm with a plastic smack.

“Be nice!”

“I’m being right!”

“Talk to him?” Zayn questions before Harry can protest. “You think I should call him? Maybe, like. This week or summat?”

Both heads turn to him, Louis smiling and Harry looking surprised.

“Yes,” they both say as one, and Zayn actually laughs at that.

“Maybe,” is all he commits to, but as Harry and Louis look at each other, hopeful and communicating silently, he thinks that, fuck it. He probably will.

He’s sick of perching on windowsills.

*

It’s a cold and bitter night when Zayn drinks enough vodka to call Niall Horan.

Except it’s not really cold at all—it’s just humid and a bit hot, but it feels really fucking cold now that he’s sat on the steps of their building in the moonlight, now that he’s not wearing enough layers and has got the phone in his hands, Niall’s number pulled up.

All he needs to do is press the call button. That’s literally it. Just press the button. Touch a button and then he’ll…well. He’ll sort of be with Niall, won’t he?

It’s simultaneously essential and repellent to his existence. But he’s drunk enough not to care, is instead composed of shivered, broken thoughts and the pain that still speckles his arms from when he was painting him _again_ that morning. He used the Cornflower Blue. It scared him, scared the shit out of him to just use a dab and he nearly broke down in Harry’s living room because of it. Thankfully no one was home. The boyfriends were on some date or summat. Still on it, in fact. The place is entirely to himself but Zayn can’t be in there right now. Too stuffy. It’s much better on the steps. Outside.

So with night-born air in his lungs and a cigarette comfortingly tucked behind his ear (and half a bottle of Svedka churning in his veins and stomach, cheers) he presses the button.

Zayn Malik presses the button to call Niall Horan. The boy he left behind. The boy made of cornflower and Purple Rain and beer and _that laugh_. A guffaw—that’s probably more like a guffaw than Zayn’s laugh. Or maybe Zayn’s laugh began to sound like Niall’s laugh after awhile…

The thought sends another forlorn wave of aching wave of nostalgia and yearning, and it’s powerful enough to surge his hand up to his ear, press the phone to it and listen as the line connects.

It rings.

Fuck, he needs more vodka. There definitely wasn’t enough vodka.

It rings aga—

It stops, is sent to voicemail.

Oh shit. Oh fucking shit. It was sent to voicemail.

_Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging syst—_

Zayn pulls the phone away, hangs up with weakened fingers and ice clinging to his lips. It was sent to voicemail. Like, physically sent. Niall saw the number and rejected it. Straight away.

There’s really only one thing Zayn can take from this experience as he sits on cold, cement steps and fumbles for his cigarette with shaking hands that burn with shame: he was right in not having tried to reach out before. He was right.

*

Over the course of the next few days, Zayn successfully manages to suffer from soul-crushing disappointment and rejection in obscurity, right beneath the noses of the boyfriends.

Harry, bless him, is still too fussed about love and summer and decorating the flat (Louis’ coming to live with him for the summer; it’s all they talk about) to notice anything out of the ordinary in his behavior. And Louis seems just as distracted, indulging Harry’s excitement and outstretched hands and adoring smiles with all the care of a proper soulmate/husband/whatever is the appropriate word. ‘Other Half’ maybe. Probably. Zayn likes to think of Harry and Louis as being two halves of a hole. It’s oddly comforting.

In any case, it’s been a quiet few days. Just Zayn and the smoke and his sketchbook and a bit of paint. And some tears, yeah. A portion of hopelessness as well. Nothing new, though. As depressing as that is to say.

So he’s not exactly suspecting it when Louis suddenly plops in front of him while he’s sketching black holes with charcoal on the floor of Harry’s flat, setting down a cup of gelato with a ceremonious thump that ripples through the dark, varnished wood. He blinks, looks up at Louis through the smudged glasses that sit low on his nose. He doesn’t know why he wears them—they don’t even help his vision.

Louis looks determined, bright, and coy. Probably a bit smug as well. Not too different than usual.

“Mate,” Zayn greets, a little unsure. He sets down the bit of charcoal, fingers coated in black powder, his nails a complete mess. He looks dirty but it’s alright. No harm in it.

“Mate,” Louis greets firmly in return, glancing pointedly down at the gelato before meeting his eye once more. “I brought you your favourite food.”

“I see that.” He doesn’t grab it yet, though. Suspicious activity is afoot. And, quite frankly, he’s too miserable to engage in any sort of… _thing_ right now.

“I thought you might need it. Seeing as how the call to Niall went so shit.”

He says it so casually that Zayn nearly chokes. How the fuck?

“I never told you about that…” he says slowly, straightening, attention caught. He sets down his sketchbook, settles the palms of his hands on his knees. They’ll stain his jeans and he couldn’t give less of a fuck.

Louis sighs, long suffering. Perfect drama teacher in the making. “You didn’t have to,” he says, as if he were instructing a very young and naughty boy. “It’s obvious. Write clear across your face, Malik.”

Oh, the misery’s written clear across his face? Excellent.

“Whatever,” Zayn grumbles, taking the gelato with just a bit of a pout. He digs the spoon in—it’s mocha flavored. His favourite type, as well. With the little bits of chocolate and the swirl. He takes the first bite and the assault of sugar mingles with the smoke that’s still lingering on his tongue. It’s brilliant. Almost makes up for that time he fell in love and fucked everything up.

Oh, wait. No it doesn’t.

He sighs at his own bitter thoughts and takes another, bigger, bite. More sugar, more happiness. Maybe.

“Did you talk?” Louis asks after a moment. He’s sitting with his legs folded and hands clasped together. He looks uncharacteristically calm and attentive. It’s altogether suspicious.

“Do you know something I don’t?” Zayn asks, taking another bite. He looks down at his sketch. It needs tidying up.

Louis shakes his head. “Nah. I’m just observant.”

“You are? I didn’t take you for observant.”

“I’m clever,” Louis says, taken aback a bit. It’s a little defensive, but it’s in good humour, a smirk poking at his lips. “I notice things! ‘M not like Harry.”

At that they both laugh, settle the air a bit. Zayn feels himself relax, watching the gelato dwindle as he scoops spoon after spoon into his mouth. He loves Louis a lot, he decides. Good mate.

“He can be clever, sometimes,” Zayn mumbles with a smirk, scraping the last bits out of the paper cup.

Louis grins, eyes already soft and lingering. “More than clever,” he says softly. In his Harry voice.

If there’s one thing Zayn’s noticed about them, it’s that Louis has a Harry voice and Harry has a Louis voice. It’s so stupid. Stupid love birds. Zayn wants to paint them forever. So much better than painting him.

“What happened, Zayn?” Louis asks after awhile, after Zayn’s set down his empty cup and wiped his mouth with dirty, charcoaled fingers. It’s gentle, though, and usually Zayn might bristle at the pity that’s so clearly laced within the tone but… But Louis manages to pull it off somehow and he finds himself wanting to sort of, like, speak. A bit.

“Didn’t talk to him or anything,” he says, wiping his hands off on his jeans again. He picks up the bit of charcoal, just for something to do. He feels a bit off-kilter, so he tries to distract his limbs. “He just sent me straight to voicemail.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. So that’s the end of that.”

And he thinks the conversation will end there, that Louis will nod sagely and rub an empathetic hand along his arm, but Louis doesn’t make one movement. There’s no nod and no empathetic hand. He doesn’t leave or anything. Zayn peers up at him, finds Louis looking back at him with both eyebrows raised. Incredulous is probably a good way to describe his expression.

“Well, duh. Obviously,” he says, once Zayn meets his eye. “Why on bloody earth would he answer your call?”

Zayn stares.

“What?”

“Why would he answer your call? After you abandoned him? And ignored him for the past—“

“You were the one who encouraged me to call him,” he protests, shocked and flushed, and Louis rolls his eyes, obviously exasperated, if not slightly amused. Hah hah.

“Yeah but he’s not supposed to answer the first ring, is he?” he says, and once again he’s talking to a young, troublesome school child. Zayn scowls. “I’d think he was an idiot if he did.”

It’s a bit insulting, even if it is truthful, so Zayn scowls deeper, wishing he hadn’t quite enjoyed his gelato so much so that he could instead dump it on Louis’ pristine white trousers.

He wouldn’t actually do that, though.

“I don’t understand,” he says instead. With tired hands he takes off his glasses, rubs a hand over his eyes. He doesn’t really want to talk about this anymore.

“Okay. So,” Louis says, and he’s using his hands, just like Harry does. “I think you need to hear something right now, Zayn. Okay? So I’m going to say it.” He pauses, most likely for dramatic effect, and Zayn remains silent and unimpressed until he opens his mouth again. “It’s perfectly normal to ‘warm up’ to the idea of trying to talk to someone again. It’s perfectly normal for Niall to take his time. Likewise, it’s perfectly normal to keep trying. Because just one call, after all this time, isn’t going to cut it, mate.”

“But—“ Zayn protests, and the words make sense, is the thing. They actually do. It’s a bit frustrating, honestly. He doesn’t know what to say.

“So keep trying,” Louis continues, king of the world, and he says the words with a confident smile. “And keep giving him some time, alright? Success on the first go is boring anyways. Gotta fight a little bit. Else you get weak, eh?” He punches jokingly at Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn levels him with a slow blink.

Louis just laughs. “Good talk,” he smirks, making to stand up.

But Zayn’s wheels are turning. They actually are. Because it makes sense.

“So,” he says, looking up to Louis who pauses. “Just…keep calling, then? Just keep calling?”

“Yeah, why not?” Louis shrugs with a smile, picking up the empty gelato cup.

Zayn can’t find an answer, so instead he nods a thanks as Louis dumps it in the bin.

“And, who know,” Louis says, as he picks up Harry’s bag off of the floor and slings it over his shoulder, grabbing keys off of the counter. “Maybe you’ll even pluck up the energy to leave a voicemail.”

He winks and then he’s gone.

And Zayn thinks.

*

For an entire week, Zayn doesn’t sketch.

Instead of sketching, he’s been writing. Or planning. Whatever. However you want to label it. But he’s been mapping out outlines, so to speak, and jotting down potential conversations and opening lines and…well.

Okay, to put it bluntly, he’s been writing out what he’s going to say to Niall, should he pick up the next time he has the courage to call him, or should he decide to leave a voicemail. Not only this, but he is also plotting out potentially different routes of conversation and his responses to such.

It’s not pathetic or weird. It’s fuckin’ brilliant.

But. Zayn mostly feels pathetic and weird.

Still though, he neurotically scribbles down every potential word during his lectures, outside of his lectures, and in between, and he devours cigarettes upon cigarettes and hides in every dark corner of every room.

“Louis told me he talked to you,” Harry says one day, moving to sit beside him on the couch.

Zayn closes his notebook with a snap. In no way, shape, or form is he prepared to share his neuroticisms with anyone. Not even Harry. Who, he’s sure, has done worse. The boy got a tattoo on a whim, for fuck’s sake—he’s lucky that worked out so well for him.

“Yeah?” he says, shuffling to move over.

“Yeah,” Harry says, soft. He’s observing Zayn closely, eyes large and green and gentle. It’s possible that Harry is actually the kindest soul in the entire world. Kind enough to even affect Zayn’s embittered remains, at least. Kind enough to have stood out from the very moment he stumbled into his life, lost and alone and watching him paint. “He says you’re still trying to reach Niall?”

Zayn merely nods. He doesn’t really feel like offering up words. They’d be meaningless, anyways. He’s not that great with words.

“Well,” Harry continues after a pause, and he smiles softly in accompaniment. “I think that’s incredible. Like, really incredible. And if you ever need anything, I’m here. Obviously. And, like, I just think you’re really strong, Zayn. And what you’re doing is only making you stronger.”

He smiles in spite of himself. How does Harry always manage to make him do so? He’s such a sap, such a sensitive soul. But the way he gives forth bits of himself and bits of others… It’s mesmerizing to Zayn in so many ways. He’s so unabashedly _feeling_. Harry used to say, back when he and Louis were still broken up, that he wasn’t as strong or bold or brave on his own. But Zayn never really understood—he’s always found Harry to be all of those things. More than Zayn could ever be.

“Thanks, H,” he says softly, smiling and bringing a hand to rest atop Harry’s, only momentarily. He removes it before Harry can grab it and hold his hand or something—Harry is so, _so_ tactile, it’s ridiculous—and instead stands up, ruffling Harry’s hair, who smiles in response. “I think I’m going to go for a walk. I need to psych myself up for my next attempt.” He smirks at himself, and Harry smiles wider.

“Good luck,” he says earnestly, and hops up and hugs him before he can protest.

Zayn goes stiff, pats Harry’s back politely. Twice. One pat, two pat. He hates hugs. He doesn’t understand them.

Harry eventually lets go, after squeezing him tightly enough to nearly wind him, and takes a step back, a proud smile on his face. “I’m going to head out myself,” he says. “Got to pick up Louis from the bakery. Nora always steals him from me.”

“It’s because they get on so well,” Zayn reasons with another smile. Harry will never, ever admit that he’s jealous of the bond Nora and Louis formed almost instantaneously, but Zayn can see it. He always sees right through Harry.

“That they do,” Harry says with a little laugh, eyes on the verge of twinkling, and they leave the flat at the same time.

*

Once again, Harry and Louis are on a date. So once again, Zayn has the flat to himself.

And, once again, he’s staring at his phone in sheer terror.

But tonight’s the night. He’s promised himself. After a week’s worth of preparation, he’s going to do it. He’s going to call Niall again and he’s going to try. Proper like. Because that’s what Niall deserves.

He’s got countless pages and scraps of paper spread before him on the table. He’s sat in the kitchen—in close proximity to the wine rack because he’s practical and well-prepared—and he can do this, alright? He can do this. Just gotta press that button again. That’s it. That’s literally it.

He scans the pages before him, his hastily scribbled notes and outlines and potential opening lines that are mostly horrendous, barely any of them making the ‘final cut’ so to speak (“Niall? It’s Zayn. I paint you every day” was the first scrap of paper to fly in the bin) and he’s just beginning to choke on a bit of panic, wondering if he should perhaps wait and ask Harry to write him something—he’s a writer, after all—when suddenly.

Suddenly his phone lights up. And it’s Niall. Who’s calling him? Niall Horan.

Oh fucking shit.

He picks up immediately, picks up so fast he doesn’t have time to worry about how utterly pathetic he looks.

“Hello? Hi? Yes?” is how he answers it, an octave higher, and it’s not cool at all. It’s the opposite of cool. Zayn has trouble scraping together enough words to fill a sentence during a day and yet, somehow, here he’s managed to answer the fuckin’ phone with three fuckin’ useless words. All the while sounding like he sucked up a pint of helium. And he’s sweating for fuck’s sake, sweating enough for his too-thick glasses to slide down the brim of his nose and his clothes to stick to him. Why is even wearing a shirt? He never wears a shirt.

Nothing right now is promising.

Save for the bit about Niall actually calling him.

“Is this Zayn Malik?” comes Niall’s voice, blunt and brash and musical. And gruff. Noticeably gruff.

Zayn needs more saliva in his mouth.

“Yes,” he croaks.

“Thought so,” Niall grunts in response. “Just making sure. You fuckin’ cunt.”

And then he hangs up.

Luckily, there’s enough adrenaline coursing through Zayn’s veins that he decides on being completely fuckin’ foolish. He calls back.

“You complete cunt,” is how Niall apparently answers the phone now, but Zayn’s breath hitches regardless, because…well. Because Niall picked up the phone. Hell, Niall called him first. This is actually very promising. “You fuckin’ dick. You son of a bitch. What the fuck do you want?”

And Niall’s probably the happiest person Zayn’s ever met, so the anger is a bit terrifying and appalling… But it’s promising. He can’t explain how. But. It’s promising.

Zayn remains silent, just listens and schools his breathing.

“You fuckin’ dick,” Niall says again, but it’s weaker, less red and raging.

Zayn still listens, silent.

“Wanker.” Quieter.

Then there’s a bit of returning silence, then a harsh sigh. A little exasperated, a little surrendering. Then, very, very quietly:

“Cunt.”

It’s so _Niall_ that Zayn can’t help the watery, brief laugh that slips from his lips. Maybe it’s a relieved laugh—relieved to just hear his voice—or maybe it’s a helpless laugh or an uncomfortable laugh. But Zayn laughs, short, and sinks his head, pressing his palm into his forehead as he listens to his phone, waiting, at a loss.

The briefest, briefest laugh is heard in response. And then more silence.

“Got any more?” Zayn asks, forehead clammy against his palm. He looks down at the surface of the table intently, straining to hear every sound on the other line.

“Yeah,” Niall grunts back. “You know I do.”

“Yeah, I know.” More silence. The brief, light-ish feeling ebbs away, leaves tension instead. Here goes. “Go on, then. You might as well as say it all because I’ve got some things to say as well.”

It’s probably the bravest thing he’s ever said.

Maybe Niall knows that because he says, “Nah, I’m good,” and his tone has altered a bit. Sounds a bit less likely to throw glass at his head. “It’s nothing you don’t already know, I’m sure.”

“Yeah….”

This is stressful. Zayn’s not good with words. He fumbles with the papers, grabs the first one he sees. But the words…fuck, the words are just blurring together and he didn’t prepare a ‘what to do when he greets you by calling you a few choice words before you laugh like you’re ol’ school chums’ outline, so he just blurts the first things that come, without being able to grab them first, to check and see if they make sense.

“I want to say I’m sorry—“ he starts, but then Niall’s voice cuts through the line.

“You fuckin’ better say you’re sorry, you cunt!”

Once again, somehow, Zayn finds himself helplessly laughing. It’s honestly the last thing he expected to do during this conversation—laugh. It’s sort of panicked and uncomfortable and hysterical, but it’s a laugh.

“Just—just let me talk,” he says, voice more steady, maybe a little warmer. It feels easier now. He can feel himself curling into the sound of Niall’s voice. He missed it. Shit, he missed it a lot.

After a full three seconds of silence, Zayn takes it as ‘go’.

“I want to say I’m sorry,” he continues, and he swears he can feel the pressure of Niall suppressing back his interruptions and thundering words. “But those are just words. They’re overdone, like. Everybody says they’re sorry but what’s that even mean? It’s lost its meaning over time. It’s not—it doesn’t even explain. It’s not nearly enough.”

Okay he needs a fucking cigarette.

Miraculously, Niall manages to remain silent as he lights one, brings it to his lips and sucks the shit out of it, because he’s on the verge of potentially exploding.

“I just really think you should know,” he says at last, words a bit dryer, quieter, calmer, smouldering cigarette settled between his fingers. “That I’m ashamed and disgusted with what I did to you. And that I’m a fucking mess every day.” His knees jerk, one legs bounces. He feels oddly emotional. He’s blinking too much. He sounds almost panicked. “I don’t even know how to do this or what to say. But I did, sort of, write some things down. I’ve got, like, a few words here—“ and he tries to shuffle the pages again because he’s at a loss, panicked and pained and ashamed because nothing he can say feels like enough.

Niall’s chuckling, though. He’s…actually chuckling. “You wrote out a speech?” he asks, and his tone is clearly amused. “I didn’t know you could write.”

Zayn smiles in spite of the panic. In spite of all the danger—like that one song Harry always listens to. “Well,” he says after a moment, his heart calming again. It’s not so bad. “I’d call it more, like, caveman scratches.”

Niall laughs again. Proper.

Zayn clears his throat, doesn’t let himself hope. “But, uh, I wrote some things—“

“Stop,” Niall then says, and the humour’s gone. He’s sounds tired. Zayn hates when he sounds tired. “You don’t have to read, or whatever.”

He swallows, a little bit of dread beginning to settle. “I don’t?”

“Nah.” Niall sighs, deep and long and washing over Zayn’s body. “This is a conversation we should be having face to face, mate.”

He blinks. Face to face? In person?

“You mean, like, you want to…hear me say it to you? Off the phone, like?” His voice is wavering, even after he clears his throat. Embarrassing. A bit.

Niall might roll his eyes in exasperation. There’s no real way to prove it, though. “Yeah, mate, yeah. Just, ya know. Meet up. Get our shit sorted.”

“You want to meet up.”

“Yeah. Of course. This ‘over the phone’ shit isn’t my style. No serious conversation should be done over the phone.”

And Zayn is very, very close to passing out, but instead he keeps the phone pressed to his ear and closes his eyes, waits for the punchline.

“You’re serious. You want to see me.”

“I want to meet up, yeah.” There’s a second’s pause—Zayn’s heartbeat stuffed in his ears—and then Niall’s unsure chuckle flitters over the line. “Unless you don’t want to, mate. But.” He stops, issues another unsure chuckle that sounds a bit drier, a bit sadder. “It’s the least you could do for me. I mean, shit. You sorta owe me one.”

Only after he’s nodding for seven earnest seconds does Zayn realize that he can’t be seen.

“Yeah,” he rushes forth, gripping the table. “Yeah, no, that’s not a problem. When? When do you want to? I just have school. I’m almost done—exams, you know. Then break. I don’t have a job. I’m free.” He never talks this much, probably hasn’t talked this much since last time he was with Niall.

What is it about this kid.

He can practically feel Niall’s shrug over the line. “How about next week? I’ll be done with uni by then. I don’t go back to my job ‘til the first, so. No time like the present, eh?”

“You go to uni?” Zayn asks, a little softly. He clears his throat, readjusts the phone to his ear.

“Yeah. Culinary school.”

The perfect life choice for Niall. Zayn smiles, is happy he can’t be seen.

“Good, mate.”

“How about you? Uni? Or…?”

“Yeah. ‘M going for art.”

There’s a grunt of assent. “Good choice, Malik. Always been good with your hands.” The innuendo is thinly veiled and there’s a thin layer of tension to it, but mostly it’s good-natured (how? how can he be so kind after everything? how?) and Zayn finds himself laughing—a sound that had been all but alien up until this conversation. How does he manage to do this to him? Just. How everything?

“Yeah, well,” Zayn says dismissively, refusing to give in to the blush, and he looks down at the table, feels a smile on his own lips. An actual smile. It feels different than cigarette smoke and cold sheets. Nice.

The line goes quiet and it sort of feels like they’re both almost falling into place, like they’re both just adjusting to the sound of each other breathing and speaking and existing again. Like they’re two animals, two wolves, Zayn would like to think, sniffing each other out and trying to get a sense of territory. A sense of something, _anything_.

It’s all going so much better than he anticipated. It’s so easy, so fuckin’ _easy_. After all this misery and yet it’s just so easy.

He already feels blessed. Something he never thought he’d say.

“So next week, then? How about…” Monday, he wants to say Monday. That’s technically next week but it’s the first day of next week and the closer the better. His hesitation is all but gone—he just wants to see Niall. Just wants to _see_ the guy. Tell him everything so he can see it in his face. “Monday? Or Tuesday? Wednesday, even, if—“

“Yeah,” Niall agrees, and now he clears his throat. His voice sounds a bit altered, as if returning from a daze. “Monday’s good.”

Zayn exhales, feels his heart quivering like hummingbird’s wings.

“Good.”

“Good.”

And Zayn’s about to go, he’s about to part with a pleasant, underwhelming cordiality (he’s just never been good with words) but he keeps gripping the phone, keeps breathing.

It’s just going so much better than he’d anticipated. That’s the thing, innit?

It’s going better than he thought it would so he might as well say it, eh? Just get his shit out there. ‘Don’t ever let yourself regret’ he’d once told Harry, before he’d gotten back with Louis, when he was still a shadowy mess of tears and chaos and wouldn’t ever look anybody  in the eye for longer than necessary. When Harry was small and dark and bruised—Zayn had seen his solution so clearly, saw his path back to Louis so confidently.

Now he’s just got to see it for himself.

“Niall,” he begins, and he realizes how nervous he sounds. He’s on unfamiliar footing. But fuck, he’ll do it for this guy. He’ll do pretty much anything for this guy. That must be what love’s all about. “Before you go.”

“Yeah?” Niall sounds almost nervous, his voice quieter. Maybe a little uneasy, even.

Oh well.

“I regret everything I did,” Zayn says, and the words form themselves. “I would do it all differently now. I wish I’d told Pez after that first time.” Oh shit this is scary, but he keeps speaking because he sort of can’t stop and because he swears he just heard Niall’s breath catch, just a bit. At least some alteration in his breathing. “I wish I would’ve told her so we could’ve been, like, properly together. So we could’ve done it right. And then I think things would’ve just…been easier, you know?”

The silence carries, but Zayn doesn’t give a fuck. He doesn’t regret a word.

At last, Niall clears his throat, probably licks his lips.

“So you don’t regret it then, huh?” It sounds surprised. “Us? You don’t take any of it back? None of it?”

“Only the part where I left,” Zayn responds immediately, quietly. He’s a little terrified. A lot terrified. Oh well.

There’s more silence and Zayn fucking prays it’s a good silence, and he’s just beginning to shift uneasily, when suddenly there’s a soft chuckle that carries him afloat.

“Yeah,” Niall says, softer than he’s ever spoken maybe. Softer than Zayn thought he could speak. “Yeah, I regret that, too.”

Zayn sucks in a breath.

Hope. Zayn feels hope. Fuck, he feels like he could almost… Like he could almost have him again. It feels possible. Somehow.

How?

“I’ll see you next week, Zayn?”

Somehow. Niall makes it possible somehow.

“Yeah,” Zayn says and it’s like he can feel the world again. “Yeah, Ni. See you next week.”

And neither say goodbye, the smiles still caught in their voice.

 

*HAPPILY EVER AFTER*

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully that helps smooth some feelings?   
> <3 
> 
> (I swear I'm going to re-read this and fix all the trash. I swear.)  
> (tumblr = mizzwilde)  
> (sorry)


End file.
